On a hike Sunday on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail along Falls Lake, our hikers stopped and took an extended, sweeping look at the surrounding terrain. The trees – sycamores and oaks, several beeches in this cove – were nearly spent of leaves, the work they do for that year carpeting the forest floor with golden leaves. The slanting early December sunlight and also the cloudless blue sky made everything pop a bit more.
“It's so beautiful out here,” she said. I was tickled to listen to those words, words I've arrived at hear more often through the years as I expose more people towards the joys of winter hiking.
Traditionally, most folks, even avid hikers, put their hiking gear kept in storage before the first spring wildflowers begin to poke through in March. “It's freezing,” they protest. Or, too – brown.
Too cold? Well, that's easy to cope with, with the right clothes. Especially with a great pair of gloves and a wool hat, which handle the lion's share of heat management on a winter hike. Learning to layer your clothing helps mitigate the cold, and understanding the right fabrics to put on does likewise.
But too brown? Brown isn't necessarily one praised for nuance. But the next time you step out into the winter woods, pay attention to the leaf-covered forest floor, which ranges from a coppery brown, to some sand dune beige for an almost creamsicle orange. Together, these hues create a subtle melange, a colorway that's distinctly winter.
Those leaves on the floor mean the woods have dropped their summer mask. The sometimes claustrophobic feel of the summer forest gives way to terrain exposed, to some land with few secrets. That rustling you hear 50 yards off in summer is revealed in the winter months to become a darting squirrel. On a trail you've hiked a dozen times in the sunshine you might be surprised to understand, come winter, passes the crumbling foundation of an old homestead.
There's the amplified quiet. So quiet you hear very simple rustle the distant tree tops minutes before it brushes your cheek. So quiet you can hear yourself think.
There's heaven. Winter in these parts is renowned for its milky skies, a blue sky made faint by a prevailing thin layer of vapor. A murky sky, a sky that refuses to yield its intentions: Rain? Maybe. But most likely not. A timeless sky that says, No rush; just enjoy.
And, obviously, there is the absence of other hikers. Folks, unlike you, who've not yet been winter enlightened. Having the trail to yourself: could winter provide a better gift?
When we head on the trail in spring and fall, it's with great expectations. We want every wildflower to be in bloom, we want the probably the most brilliant fall foliage display ever. In winter, we have no such expectations.
Possibly the reason a winter's day around the trail rarely disappoints.
